The Grinch’s skin was the wrong shade of green—the kind that looked like it had been left in the sun too long. And he wasn’t wearing pants.He stood in the alley behind the butcher’s shop, his knobby knees knocking together, his sagging belly swaying slightly with each shallow breath. The stench of spoiled meat clung to him, mixing with the metallic tang of old blood. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails blackened and curling into claws. One of his ears was missing a chunk, as if something had taken a bite.
A streetlamp flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that made his ribs look like prison bars beneath his mottled skin. He scratched absently at his crotch, the act less about itch and more about habit. The cold didn’t bother him—nothing bothered him anymore, not since the thing inside him woke up. His grin widened, lips splitting further at the corners, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too many.
From the darkness, a low moan answered him. A woman—or what was left of one—shuffled into the dim light, her nightgown hanging in tatters. The Grinch tilted his head, considering her the way a butcher considers a side of beef. She licked her cracked lips, fingers trembling as they hovered near his bare hip. “You’re… different,” she whispered. The Grinch exhaled a laugh that smelled like rotting peppermint. “I’m not different, just a little bit green.”
Her fingers brushed his belly, sinking into the loose flesh like wet bread. The Grinch shuddered, not from pleasure, but from something deeper—hunger. His skin rippled where she touched, as if something beneath it was shifting. The woman gasped, but didn’t pull away, taking his thingamabob in her mouth as the Grinch, whispered. “Tell me, do I taste like Christmas?”
